Natural New Zealand

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 20/10/2012 (5020 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table in a log ranch house where animal heads stare glassy-eyed from the living room walls. A framed photograph of Bonanza’s Cartwright family, posed outside a similar log house on the Ponderosa, hangs near the kitchen door.

But this house is on a large cattle ranch in the middle of “seriously nowhere,” a few kilometres down the road from the village of Franz Josef in New Zealand’s glacier country — and nobody knows I’m here.

I say this not only because I have an actively paranoid imagination but because my unarmed husband, Jon, is off in a helicopter with a group of rifle-toting hunters and it’s getting dark. I’m convinced at this point that he’s the big game, he’s not coming back and I, as a witness, am next. But more on that later.

Franz Josef is a small village in New Zealand, somewhat reminiscent of Banff, Alta. It seems to attract Canadians, which is what led to the aforementioned hunting trip.

We arrived in Franz Josef the day before, after a scenic train ride from Christchurch to Greymouth, where we picked up a rental car for the 180-kilometre drive along a Whistler-in-the-old-days twisty mountain road.

We spent the night in a comfy room with a king-sized bed and a soaker tub at the aptly named Franz Josef Glacier Country Retreat.

Surrounded by cattle pastures, with distant lake views, we had two days at the retreat, and it was the first time on this whirlwind New Zealand odyssey we really felt relaxed. That feeling would be fleeting.

The next morning, after a fabulous three-course country breakfast in the dining room at this gracious inn, we headed for town and a helicopter tour of the Fox and Franz Josef glaciers.

Our Scottish pilot, intent on scaring the wits out of us, flew straight towards the peak’s edge twice, zipping up and over and down again just at the last second, giving us a gut-fluttering 20-minute ride over stunningly rugged terrain. Two young German women in the front seat giggled nervously throughout the flight. (After swapping seats for the ride back we understood why.) We landed on the glacier for a quick snowball toss before heading back to town for lunch at the local pub.

En route, we stopped at a bookstore to find a New Zealand cookbook — I’m an obsessive collector. We were looking to recreate a few Kiwi specialties, specifically the venison salami that had us both smitten. When I asked the kid behind the counter for the most authentic New Zealand cookbook, he confessed he didn’t know which to choose; he was from Langley, B.C.

Down the road at the pub, our waitress told us she was from Calgary, and we told her the story about the kid in the bookstore. The guy standing next to us overheard and said he was from Langley as well.

Small world. Anyway, the guy from Langley was talking to a local guy, a helicopter pilot, who happened to know a butcher who made venison salami. Serendipity at play.

“Stop by my house for a beer on your way back from town,” he said. “It’s just down the road from where you’re staying. There’s a helicopter next to the driveway — you can’t miss it. I might not be back yet, but I’ll let my wife know you’re coming and she’ll give you directions to the butcher’s house.”

So we had a plan. First, a visit to the West Coast Wildlife Centre for a chance to view the rowi kiwi. Rowi — also known as the Okarito brown kiwi — are only found in the Franz Josef area and, with fewer than 400 birds left in the wild, are the world’s rarest kiwi.

We entered a darkened room created to represent the natural habitat of these quirky threatened creatures and spotted one moving in the shadows. It was difficult to see much in the dark, so we headed out to the presentation centre. We learned about the successful efforts of a dedicated team of conservationists, fighting the evil scourge of introduced species such as the stoat, who feast on these flightless birds and their eggs.

An hour later we were back on the road. A short distance from town, we spotted the helicopter on the side of the road and turned down a long driveway, driving past a field of cattle, and were greeted by a pair of massive barking bull mastiffs. Had I not been familiar with the gentle nature of this breed, I might have stayed in the car. Had I known what was to come, I might not have arrived at all.

The missus appeared, beer in hand (no disrespect intended), to investigate the barking. Yes, she said, she was expecting us, and she invited us inside.

As she was writing out the directions to the butcher’s house in the next town, we heard the deafening sound of a jet helicopter landing. It was then that I discovered our pilot friend flew trophy hunters from around the world who were intent on bagging Himalayan thar and chamois.

Both of these animals were introduced by Europeans in the early 1900s, for the sole purpose of sport hunting. Because their growing numbers are destroying native foliage, they are considered pests in these parts.

Trophy hunting may be big business here, but it’s also a point of pride for locals to eradicate the many destructive creatures introduced to New Zealand by Europeans and Australians over the last century. That explains the possum carcasses that litter the highways. Apparently if you live here, you are duty-bound to squash as many as you can.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

The reason the copter was back early was the son of a hunter on this trip was feeling a bit queasy (I’d find out later why). The pilot asked Jon if he’d like to go for a ride.
Hell yeah, Jon replied without a second thought.

The fact that he was wearing shorts and flying in glacier country near dark didn’t enter his mind. Off he went for the adventure of his life.

This adventure, I’m glad I didn’t know at the time, also involved Jon jumping out of the hovering helicopter (from four feet off the ground) to flush out a thar from under the brush. He then had to slide down a steep slope on his butt to get to a clearing where the pilot could find him and then pull himself back up into the hovering craft.

Back at the ranch house, as the sky darkened, I was trying to make small talk, but it was painfully clear I was out of my element.

Finally, thankfully, the missus detected the distant drone of the helicopter, grabbed a half-dozen frosty beer, set them on a tray and headed for the door. I restrained myself from running and followed her into the bug-filled night, the dogs trotting along beside me.

By the time we reached the hangar, two animals were hooked on a rack and a ranch hand was deftly skinning one of them. The hunting party swigged beer and talked excitedly about the chase, while the dogs waited eagerly on the sidelines for bloody scraps. Nothing is wasted here.
I wanted to bolt for the car. This rugged pioneer country was no place for a city-slicker sissy girl like me.

After a bit of silent prodding followed by dagger stares at Jon, who was enjoying the camaraderie, we thanked our hosts and headed back to our very civilized inn, where I barely slept a wink for the wild dreams.

— Postmedia News

IF YOU GO

Train travel: www.tranzscenic.co.nz
Car rental: www.budget.co.nz/locations/south_island-car-hire-rental/Greymouth/default.aspx
Accommodation: www.glacierretreat.co.nz/
Helicopter tours: www.glacierhelicopters.co.nz/franz.asp
Kiwi Conservation: www.wildkiwi.co.nz
Thar and chamois: www.doc.govt.nz